by Jagger Cole
But she’s twenty years younger. She’s a Korolyov. I’m walking a very thin line with her in this house. On one side, duty. On the other side, lust. I need to tread carefully, or I’m going to fall.
The lights turn off in her room. I’m still fucking hard.
I pour another drink. Then another after that. Finally, I force myself to go to bed, though the wheels are still turning. At some point, I finally fall asleep.
I remember wondering if I’ll dream of Katrina. Instead, I dream of fire.
6
Katrina
I wake in the morning to my phone buzzing. I look around the room and smile. My uncle’s house is large and rich. But these quarters really are something else altogether. The huge canopy bed seems to surround me. Soft white curtains drape down, filtering the morning light. The entire room is polished white marble, silver accents, and soft light.
It’s like a princess room. I might have been sold into this. I may be a bargaining chip, to settle a debt. But for the very first time in my life, I do feel like a princess.
Teases of the dream I’ve just awoken from flicker through my head. I blush as the flashbacks play out again. I dreamt of him; Michael, that is. And in that dream, he was a savage. In my dream, he tore the clothes from my body. And I wanted him to. I yearned for the aggressiveness. In last night’s dream, he didn’t make love to me. He claimed me. He made me his.
I blush, feeling warm under the sheets. God, there might be something very wrong with me.
I reach for my phone. I frown when I look at it though. The buzzing is a text from my uncle. Instantly, the forbidden warmth from the dream fades. The text simply says “Make him happy. There will be consequences if you do not.”
I tremble under the soft white sheets. Micheal has seemed nothing but kind so far. Perhaps cold. Certainly distant. But not the monster that my uncle has claimed he is. But I also remember the story my uncle has told me about Micheal’s first wife: the one who didn’t please him. She’s dead, and more than just my uncle has eluded that it was Micheal who’s responsible for it.
I chew at my lip. I try and make the connection between the cold but kind man who brought me to his home last night, and the selfish mafia-boss killer I’ve been warned about. I know perfectly well that Anton is a very capable liar. But Micheal is the head of the entire Scaliami crime family. He’s hardly a Boy Scout.
“Make him happy. There will be consequences if you do not.”
My eyes read the text again. I still haven’t decided if I should believe anything my uncle has told me about Michael. But either way, I am his now. I am to be his wife. It wouldn’t hurt to hedge my bets.
My mind drifts back to the fever dream. I blush darkly before I shake it from my head.
Half an hour later, I’m showered and dressed in a skirt and a cute, strappy top. It’s classy and fancy, but not too fancy. Pierre smiles when I enter the kitchen and hands me the tray of food I called down about earlier. It’s quite early in the morning. But I’ve always been an early riser. Luckily, so is Micheal’s chef.
“Monsieur Genovese does enjoy a good eggs Benedict,” he winks. “A very good choice.”
I smile back. “Thank you, Pierre.”
Perhaps taking my clothes off in front of Michael was too… something. Maybe it was too bold, or too crude for a man like that. Whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t impressed. But a good wife does more than take her clothes off, right? I can still please him in other ways.
I carry the tray of breakfast upstairs. I sit on a table in the hallway outside his room and turn the knob. I bring it inside his quarters and walk quietly towards his bedroom. The door is ajar, and I push it open. My eyes widen.
Micheal’s quarters are even more opulent than the ones I’m staying in. The decor is much more masculine, but it’s like walking into a king’s chamber. It’s all dark slate and wood tones and black iron accents. His huge bed dominates the entire far wall of the room.
I take a breath and start to walk towards it with the breakfast tray. His blankets are folded down to the foot of the bed. My eyes move over the sleeping figure beneath the single sheet. But suddenly I gasp, loudly.
Micheal is sleeping on his back. The sheet is down to mid-torso, giving me an eyeful of his bulging, grooved chest and shoulder muscles. His muscled arms are at his sides. If he were my age, the physique I’m looking at would be considered impressive. The fact that he’s twenty years older than me makes it amazing.
But it’s not his muscles that make me gasp. His perfectly thick shoulders and arms aren’t what make me almost drop the tray of coffee and eggs Benedict. It’s that below his waist, under the sheet, is an absolutely huge bulge in the pure white sheet.
My jaw falls open. My face reddens. I tremble all over, and a sinful heat blooms in my core. I may be inexperienced. But I know what I’m looking at. I just can’t quite believe it. The tent in his sheets coming up from between his legs is massive. It’s so big and thick that I think it can’t be real.
Micheal breathes in his sleep. His chest rises and falls, and the throbbing bulge under his sheet twitches. I tremble again. The tray shakes in my hand. For some reason, I start to walk closer.
I know I should leave. But I can’t stop myself, or my curiosity. It’s like the throbbing tent in his sheet is a magnet, and I’m helpless to resist it. I walk closer, one foot after the other. All of a sudden, I’m right next to his bed, looking down at him sleeping.
He’s gorgeous. He’s one of those men who seems to have aged like wine. He’s in incredible shape, and even the age lines around his eyes seem to have been placed by a movie makeup artist. They’re perfect. He’s perfect. My eyes drop down his firm chest and over his rippling abs. They slide over bunched sheet, and then onto the throbbing bulge. My jaw drops a little more at how freaking big it is.
I don’t think. I turn and push the tray quietly onto the bedside table. I want to scream at myself “what are you doing?!” But I don’t. And I don’t stop myself, either. It’s like I’m compelled to keep going. It feels as if I’m helpless to resist the pull of it. My shaking hand reaches out. I grip the edge of the sheet. I slowly lift it, and my pulse thunders.
I lift it a little more. My breath comes heavy. Slowly, I peel it back, until suddenly, I gasp. My jaw drops all the way, and my free hand flies to cover my mouth. My eyes are wide as saucers as they stare at what I find under that tented sheet.
Micheal is completely naked. And his… his cock, is standing up thick, rock-hard, and huge from between his muscled legs.
I just stare at it. My jaw is completely dropped, and my pulse is loud in my ears. It might be the first man I’m seeing like this. But I know this isn’t the norm or the average. It can’t be. And the longer I stare at it, the quicker my pulse beats. The hotter my skin gets.
Another sort of heat begins to throb between my legs. I shift, blushing brightly. But I don’t move. I just keep staring as I squeeze my thighs together tightly. I bite my lip. Forbidden pleasure blooms in my core.
Micheal grunts in his sleep. I gasp quietly and almost flee the room. My eyes dart to his face, but he’s still fast asleep. The heat comes flooding back. My eyes slide back to what’s under the sheet still gripped in my hand. I stare at his cock.
He’s so big, and it’s so, so thick. It throbs gently, and I gasp when I see something wet bead at the tip. The sheet drops a little against him, and the wetness seeps into the cotton. Another one follows it, and this one slides slowly down his shaft.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been more turned on. I’m so close, I know I could reach out and touch him. But I don’t dare. I just look, feeling my entire body trembling with lust. Heat throbs in my core, and my pulse quickens.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I scream. I mean I literally scream and almost fall over myself as I jump back from the bed. Micheal sits up, scowling at me. His eyes drop to the bulge in his sheets, and then slide back to me. His blue eyes pierce into me. But he doesn’
t quite look angry. It’s something else. It’s something dark and intense looking.
“I’m so sorry!” I blurt.
“Katrina…”
“I’m so sorry, sir!” I blush quickly. “Micheal! I’m so sorry, Micheal!”
“What were you…”
“Breakfast!” I blurt loudly. I jab a finger at the bedside table. “I got you breakfast.”
Micheal is silent. He’s staring right at me, and I can feel myself squirming under his gaze.
“Thank you,” he growls.
“Yep.” I groan inside at the lame response. “Okay, bye!”
I turn, and I run. I half expect him to follow me; to angrily pin me to the wall and demand to know why I was in his room and peeping at him. But he doesn’t do that. When I’m out of his quarters, I stop running. I lean against the wall and slide my hands up my face, covering my eyes and my burning, mortified cheeks.
I turn to go back to my own quarters. But suddenly, the door behind me slams open. A firm, iron-gripped hand grabs me fast. I gasp and tremble as Micheal yanks me back, spins me, and pins me hard against the wall. He grabs my wrists tightly in his hand and pins them above my head against the wall.
I’m shaking. My eyes are wide as they look up into his glowering, fierce, beautiful face. He looks pissed, but it’s something else too. It’s something hungry and hard that makes my breath seize in my chest.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” he growls thickly.
I shake my head. “Nothing! Just breakfast…”
“Don’t toy with me, little girl,” Micheal hisses. His words feel like heat from a fire teasing over my skin. Burning me. Igniting me.
“I’m not—”
“Do not,” he growls. His eyes hold mine without blinking. His chest is bare, and for a second, I think he’s still naked. I can’t help it. My eyes drop down—down to where I was looking before. But he’s wearing boxers now. Boxers and nothing else.
He makes a sound that almost sounds like a deep chuckle. I tremble and look back up at his stern, handsome face.
“Do I scare you?” He growls through clenched teeth.
I shiver all over. “No,” I whisper. It’s a lie.
“Yes, I do,” Micheal snarls quietly. He leans close to me. And then even closer. He keeps leaning down until his mouth is maybe three inches from mine. I feel heat gripping my core. My skin feels electrified. I gasp quietly.
“I should scare you,” he growls. “I’m a dangerous man, Katrina.” His hands tighten their grip on my wrists. “You’ve been thrown to a wolf, and the woods are dark.”
“You… you don’t scare me,” I whisper.
He smiles dangerously. “If you’re waiting for a white knight to come save you, I’d temper that expectation.” His eyes harden. “There’s no hero out there coming to sweep you away from here.”
My jaw sets. My mind flashes back to fire and smoke. To raw muscles and firm words.
“Yes, there is,” I hiss.
Micheal chuckles darkly. “Oh is there?”
“Yes,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “There is a hero out there for me.”
Micheal rolls his eyes. His grip never loosens. “A boyfriend?”
I glare at him. His look softens slightly. “If it is a boyfriend, I’m sorry. I didn’t ask for this either, but it is what it is. I’d get used to that if I were you.”
My nose wrinkles. My jaw tightens. “He’s saved me before, and he’ll do it again.”
Micheal chuckles again. He suddenly moves closer to me. I tremble, gasping for breath. It’s like the nearness of him is making it hard to breathe and making me so warm I can barely stand it.
“Well, I wonder what’s taking him so long,” he hisses.
“Just wait,” I spit back. “Just you wait. He will. Before you can kill me like you did to your wi—”
I stop myself cold. My lips snap shut. My eyes widen in horror at what I almost just said to his face. Micheal’s face darkens like a shadow has come over is. His teeth bare. His eyes narrow dangerously.
“I—I didn’t mean to say that,” I whisper.
He eyes me. His nostrils flare. “Tread lightly,” he snarls.
“Or?”
I want to scream at myself. I haven’t the slightest idea what’s possessed me to say that; to show him sass like that. To question him. To not immediately just say yes and nod my head. Micheal’s eyes narrow. He groans quietly through a clenched jaw. His lips curl slightly into a dark smile.
“Or my restraint falls the fuck apart,” he growls deeply. “Consider this your last warning.” He slowly shakes his head. His eyes soften a touch, but his grip doesn’t. And my body is still trembling under his gaze.
“I know you never asked for this. I’m not a monster, Katrina,” he hisses. He leans closer, and I gasp. “But I can be.”
He’s so close that I can feel the heat of his bare skin on mine. With my arms above my head, my top is pulling up over my tummy. He presses hard against me. I can feel his bare skin on mine—his hard abs pressing against me. His hard chest pinning me to the wall. I can feel my nipples hard and tingling under the thin top, pressing into him.
But then I feel something else. I feel a hard, throbbing thickness suddenly bulge against my core. I gasp, trembling all over. I don’t have to look down to know what that is. But know what’s throbbing against me is an intoxicating mix of fear and thrilling excitement.
“Do not test me, Katrina,” he snarls against my ear. I gasp, trembling. He backs away from me slowly. His hands drop from my wrists, and my arms drop back down. I quickly cross them over my chest, hiding my hard nipples. But Micheal does nothing to cover his own hardness. I feel my face burning hot. I try with all of my willpower to keep my eyes on his, and to not look down at the huge bulge in his boxers.
But I do, of course. And I blush. Micheal smirks. His eyes singe me.
“Don’t play temptress with me, little girl,” he snarls. “Whatever your game is, it’s time to quit it.” He smirks again. His eyes drop to his erection. Again, he does nothing to hide it. “I see the way this makes you blush,” he grunts.
“I—”
“My quarters and my office are off limits. Stay the fuck out of them,” he snarls. “Is that understood?”
I nod quickly. My heart is racing. There’s a knot in my stomach and a throb in my core. Fear, desire. Fear, desire.
I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay in this house, near him, before those warring emotions tear me in two.
7
Micheal
There are nights I sleep badly. Others, I don’t sleep at all. Tonight, is night two of Katrina being in my home. And it’s looking to be the latter.
I swirl the scotch around the glass and stare into it. Sometimes a drink or two helps. But other times, it just gets the gears in my head going. Tonight, the wheels are turning nonstop.
I lost control this morning. I know that. I’ve been telling myself all day that it was instinctual: that I perceived a threat and neutralized it like I’ve done my whole life. I’ve lied to myself about what she was doing in my room. I’ve told myself she was snooping—playing the spy, just like Anton instructed her to be.
But I know what she was really looking at. I just don’t want to admit that. Admitting that means admitting this forbidden attraction goes both ways. And that’s dangerous. If I tell myself she’s scared of me, and that the desire is only coming from my side, I can fight it. I’m not a monster, after all.
But if I acknowledge that it’s a two-way street, I’m in trouble. If I let myself dwell on the way I’ve seen her look at me—at parts of me—I’m going to lose control. And I can’t lose control with her. I can’t.
I won’t lie. There’s a pridefulness and a smugness that comes from what happened. I’m not vain, but I’ve worked hard to keep myself in shape. I work out. I swim. I eat right, most of the time. I got to where I am by being tough and being able to hold my own. And I haven’t let power make me
soft. That includes my physique.
Catching Katrina playing peeping Tom on me has me feeling more than a little smug. It’s had me more than a little hard all goddamn day, too. My thoughts have wandered. I’ve mused about what may have happened if I hadn’t woken up and startled her. The thought of her delicate fingers curling around my thickness have me groaning. The image of her wet lips kissing my swollen head have me…
I growl and slam my fist down on my desk. Part of me wonders if this was Anton’s plan all along; to throw Katrina into my world and watch me drown in my conflicting desires.
I slam back my drink and reach for my phone. My thumb hovers over the call button, but I hesitate. This is the other part of this that’s fucking with my head. It’s not only that I’m wondering what role Katrina is really playing here. It’s that this isn’t a temporary arrangement. She’s going to be my fucking wife. Salvestro has willed it, and I know that his word is law. But I know that means I need to have a conversation with my daughter at some point. Bellamy needs to know I’m going to be getting married again, even if it’s an arrangement like this.
But I pull my thumb away and put the phone down. I tell myself it’s that I don’t want to interrupt her and Vincent’s vacation in the Florida Keys. My son-in-law and second-in-command has been busting his ass for the family. He’s earned the break, and Bellamy deserves it to.
I know that’s not the biggest reason I don’t call though. I know it’s that I’m not even sure how the fuck to have this conversation. It’s not just that I’m getting married. It isn’t even the fact that it’s an arranged business move. It’s the “who.” I’m hesitating because the woman I’m marrying is barely a woman at all. Twenty fucking years my junior. And she’s a Korolyov.
Bellamy might not know all the details of the past involving our family and that one. But she knows enough. She knows I’ve told her to stay the fuck away from them. And here I am goddamn marrying one of them.
